


My Angel

by madhattermax



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), POV First Person, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25963033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madhattermax/pseuds/madhattermax
Summary: No demon wants to be in love with an angel, but life is funny like that sometimes.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 57





	My Angel

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write this one for a couple of weeks at this point. So please enjoy the idea that's been taunting me.

I don't want to love him. He's fussy and so prim and proper. He can't keep up with the times. Hell, he can't keep up with me! He's the opposite of what you'd think a demon l like me would be attracted to. But much to my chagrin, as the humans say, opposites do attract. 

And I'd do anything for my angel. My angel indeed. I can't even properly claim him. It's all, "You go too fast for me, Crowley!" With those sad puppy dog eyes. 

Satan help me, his eyes, though. He gives me a look and it's all over. It's obnoxious. Annoying. Infuriating. I'm so mad at myself that I crumble to his will with just a look. It's so uncool. But I can't help it. Anything for my angel. He has lovely expressive eyes.

And that hair! He's barely changed it at all in 6000 some years. But the curls are enticing. I just want to reach out and touch them. Which would be terribly uncool of me. And he'd hate it anyway. But the allure is there. Yes. 

I hate to admit it even to myself, but I'm rather touched starved. Not that I'd actually let anyone touch me. Except maybe him. I might let him. But he never would. 

Hmm. What if he played with my hair? That might be nice. I should grow it long again. I wonder if he knows how to braid? 

Ugh. Stop it, self. You are too cool for this. This is human nonsense, and you are a demon. The coolest demon there is even.

But when he smiles at me, my heart stops. My breath catches. I see cartoon hearts floating around his head.

Luckily, I’m able to mask my love for him. I’m cool as a cucumber. My face is blank, and I give nothing away. 

We just finished eating at the Ritz post-Armageddon. We’re back at his bookshop. He’s busy examining his shop, making sure nothing is out of place, and taking inventory of the new additions. I’m lying on the couch in the back, trying not to think about how it’s only been roughly 24 hours since I watched this place burn. I really thought I lost him and I lost myself in that moment. The loss weighed heavily on me. Heavier than I’d like to admit.

The relief in this moment lightens me. He’s back. The bookshop is back. Armageddon didn’t happen. And we survived the body swap and execution attempts. The only thing really weighing heavy on me is the wonderment of where we go from here. I’ve seen Aziraphale every day for the past 11 years, while we watched over Warlock. Now I no longer have an excuse to see him as often. In the past, we’d check in periodically as needed. We bumped into each other now and then. But sometimes we’d go decades without seeing each other.

If that’s how it’s going to be from now on, I suppose I’ll just have to accept it. I could use a really long nap anyway. I can play it cool. I don’t need to see him daily or even weekly. I just want to. I want to be around him all day every day, as obnoxious as that is. God, that is so annoying. Why am I like this? With an angel of all people! An angel obsessed with tartan and bowties, no less. 

I see movement out of the corner of my eye and look up to see him making his way to the back where I’m at.

“I don’t suppose Adam replaced the wine,” he inquires.

“I didn’t check,” I reply, “but I’d be happy to go and chase some down.”

He makes opens the cabinet where he finds his usual stash—all safe and sound.

“Aha!” He exclaims. “Assuming it’s not vinegar or grape juice, I think this bottle suits the mood. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion, and today is that day! You’ll stay and share it with me?”

“If you would like me to, I’d be happy to comply,” I say, sitting up.

He hands me a glass, poured before I even answered proper, and takes his own and sits down in his favorite chair. He takes a sip, with a faraway look in his eyes. After a moment or so, he refocuses his gaze and looks at me. “We need to talk,” he begins.

My breath catches, and anxiety settles in. This could go so many directions, and I don’t know which direction he’s headed. I take a measured breath. “Ok.”

“Hmm. Don’t look so worried.”

Do I look worried? I should fix that. I do my best to relax and regain control over my face.

“Not much better, but I suppose that was a rough open to the conversation I want to have.” He takes another sip of wine. “I just think now that we’re on our own side… Well… I’m no longer as worried about Hell killing you as I was before. So I think, well, I’d like to discuss our friendship.”

Friendship. I can still clearly remember when he denied us being friends. “What about our friendship?” I ask carefully.

“I’m going to ask you something, and I want an honest answer, please.”

“Ok, Angel. I’m not in the habit of lying to you.”

“Yes, well. When I found you in the bar yesterday, you looked a mess and told me you’d lost your best friend. Now, I don’t want to presume anything. But, now that I know you’d been to the book shop when it was burning, I wonder if maybe… Well… Am I your best friend then?”

I blink. Oh.

“Yes,” I reply. I struggle to find words to explain or defend, or simply tack on, but I’m at a loss for words.

“Yes, well, I think I’m ready to admit that you’re also my best friend. Only…”

“Only?” I question.

“Well, it’s a bit more than that…” he trails off and looks down, focusing on the wine glass in his hand. He takes another sip, then sets it down on the table. He goes to adjust his bowtie, finds it perfectly straight, and moves on to fidget with his ring. Still refusing to look at me.

I wait patiently, not sure if I should cut in or wait it out. I’ve never been great with social cues, and I can’t really read if he wants a rescue or time to find his words. So I take a sip of my wine to bide some time. My eyes never leave his face.

Finally, he looks up. “It didn’t really begin when you handed me my books in the blitz,” he starts. “I suppose my feelings for you go back much further than that, though I can’t quite trace them to their beginning. I just know when you handed me those books all my, I suppose repressed, feelings for you raced to the forefront in that moment.”

Feelings for me? Is this still just friendship? Did he realize we were friends in that moment? I suppose better late than never.

But wait, he said a bit more than that? What’s more than that? Unless…

Oh.

_Oh?_

Surely not.

Unless?

“Angel,” my voice cracks. Hmm. Can’t have that. I clear my throat. “Angel,” I begin again, “would you be kind enough to define ‘feelings’ for me, please?”

“Well, naturally, I’m in love with you,” he replies, matter of fact as if this isn’t earth-shattering news to me.

“Naturally…” I repeat back softly. Hopefully, he can’t hear it.

“I just.” He stops and examines my face. “I just don’t know if I’m alone in this. I mean, I don’t really think I am. I think maybe you feeling the same would explain a lot. And I think maybe I already know the answer and have just been in denial out of fear. However, I would really like to hear you say it.”

“Oh,” I breath out. So much for being cool. I’m suddenly finding myself to be a pile of mush for this silly angel. “Oh, Angel, I’m sorry you ever doubted it,” I admit. “I’ve been in love with you since Eden when you told me you gave your sword away. And it’s only gotten… Worse? No. More intense over the past 6000 years. Worse, maybe because I had no hope that you’d ever love me back.”

At this, Aziraphale stands up and comes to sit beside me. He’s so close but not quite touching me. Then suddenly, he’s raising his hand as if to touch my face but pauses, not even an inch from his target. His eyes search my face clearly looking for consent, so I nod in approval and find his hand resting on my cheek in reward. I lean into the touch relishing it.

“Oh, my dear. I’m made to love, and you’re loveable. How could I not love you back?” he questions.

“Am not,” I mutter.

“I suppose you don’t want to be, but I assure you, you are. You’re kind. Intelligent. Show more compassion than even your average angel, much less demon. What’s not to love?” At this, he ruffles my hair. 

Hmm. That was indeed nice. “Fine, I’ll be loveable if you just keep doing that,” I relent.

“I think that can be arranged,” he agrees with a laugh.

He ruffles my hair one more time, then takes my hand.

“Darling, I think we should finally take that picnic tomorrow. I think it will be a lovely afternoon to enjoy St. James Park, some food, and each other.”

“That sounds nice,” I agree.

“And while we’re there, we can discuss our living arrangement,” he continues on.

“Our living arrangement?”

“Yes, our living arrangement. But we’ll discuss that tomorrow. Right now, I’ve much rather kiss you and keep kissing you until dawn.”

I barely register what he’s said before he is gently, at first, but then eagerly kissing my lips. I kiss my angel back with the hunger of millennia.

My angel.


End file.
